The Girl with the Changing Eyes
by masterofthefall
Summary: Sherlock and John investigate a series of impossible murders, finally finding out the perpetrator is a girl with telepathic and telekinetic powers who is being used as a tool by Moriarty to become unstoppable and uncatchable. Will they save her? Or will she save them? Rated T for some language, hostage scenes involving children, and all-around telekinetic bashing.
1. The Problem

**ONE**

* * *

_the problem_

* * *

Moriarty had escaped.

Again.

John Watson sighed. This had been the fourth day in a row that he outwitted them – or, rather, outwitted Sherlock. John was the doctor, the soldier. Sherlock's gift of deductive reasoning was beyond him. To be fair, though, he had picked up some tricks. But Sherlock was on a different level, a higher form of brainpower. John had thought that no one could be smarter than him.

Even Moriarty.

But Moriarty had gone, _again_, and Sherlock was pacing up and down inside the yellow tape that had been set up shortly after the police arrived. He was muttering to himself, clearly trying to puzzle out Moriarty's motives and how he could have gotten away again.

Either that, or he was just showing off for the force.

John grinned, remembering their first case and Sherlock's brilliant deductions. Pink, he had cried, and pink had almost certainly saved the day. Well, technically, John had, but that was beside the point.

"Sherlock," he called, "can we leave now? It's been over forty-five minutes and I reckon you've collected all the mud there is in this area."

"Shut up, John, I'm thinking." He started muttering again. "Some other unknown variable… an accomplice, perhaps? Moriarty dislikes getting his hands dirty… Blunt force trauma though, and no identifying weapon marks… footprints aren't near to victim… doesn't seem like his style…" he trailed off, clearly analyzing the situation.

While Sherlock had been having the time of his life with a murder of the fourth person seemingly unconnected to Moriarty, John was bored. He had examined the victim (woman, late fifties, blondish-gray hair) and determined her cause of death (blunt force trauma to the head, no other wounds, blemishes or scrapes on body). Plus, it was freezing, and he had forgotten to put on his warm jumper that morning.

"Sherlock," he pleaded. "Please? It's cold, and Lestrade will text you if something else turns up."

Lestrade turned and gave him a look that said, he should bloody well hope so, the way he's been acting, all mysterious and annoying.

John gave him a look right back that said, are you kidding? I have to LIVE with him.

They shared a silent grin. In all honesty, though, John wouldn't want to live with everyone else. Sherlock had shown him so much, had saved him from a life of boredom and psychosomatic limps. And though he could be a righteous, insufferable twat at times, he was John's best friend.

"Fine!" Sherlock said. "Let's go."

"Anything you can tell us, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

"Victim is in her late fifties, traveling alone to see her sister, ambushed, dragged out of her blue car, hit over the head by a blunt object." Sherlock fired quickly.

Lestrade frowned. "That's… not a lot, Sherlock."

The look Sherlock gave him could have frozen boiling water. "Of course it's not a lot to go on. It just doesn't make sense. Victim was dragged out of her car, obviously a blue one, going by the car paint under her nails; must have tried to hold on to the car whilst the dragging occurred, dragged, obviously, even you lot could figure that out, there's a giant mark in the dirt, and mud all over her back. But, no footprints anywhere around the drag print. Moriarty's are approximately 3.5 meters away from the scene of the murder, shifting his weight so as to make a clear impression in the mud; probably intended for me." Here, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"He had a laptop as well, faced it towards the victim, placed on the ground, I'd suspect a new one, Apple, going by the impressions left in the mud. There's absolutely no sign of tracks left by the person who dragged her, not even an attempt to cover up the tracks, so none were left. We know there was a second person because there were two sets of tracks leading here, but the other (female, size seven, approximately 7 stone, 1.7 meters tall) suddenly disappears from Moriarty's side. Eventually reappears next to Moriarty; too close, either there's a romance or some kind of prisoner of his – frankly, I'd go with prisoner, 7 stone is rather thin for a person who's 1.7 meters, perhaps malnourishment? Check into that, Lestrade, female kidnapped, fairly recently, approximately sixteen or seventeen years and with – " Sherlock's eyes dropped to the ground, noticing something he hadn't before: a long brown hair, resting on top of one of Moriarty's footprints. He picked it up and gave it to Lestrade " - long brown hair."

Lestrade took the hair, then asked, "Murder weapon?"

John took it upon himself to answer this one.

"Some kind of blunt instrument. Like, a metal pipe, a club, or even perhaps a boomerang."

"No." Sherlock said. "You're wrong. Victim has no distinct impression on her head of a blunt force instrument, not even something not normally considered a blunt force instrument. This… this is something I have… not seen before. "

Sherlock's voice grew softer, as though he was rather ashamed of this fact.

"It's more like the skull was smashed against something, but what? No traces of metal, wood or rock in the victim's skull, no object in which to bash it against. Somehow, Moriarty's got a new kind of weapon."

"Yeah, but what about…" Sherlock cut Lestrade off with "Well, John, off we go. Tea should be on by now. Text me if anything turns up, Gary."

"It's GREG!" Lestrade shouted irritably.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson walked away from the scene of Alana Cooper's fourth murder in four days, as dictated by Moriarty and accomplished by her mind. It was not likely to be her last.


	2. The Perpetrator

**TWO**

* * *

_the perpetrator_

* * *

The girl lay on her cot in Moriarty's stronghold. She was crying. Her name was Alana, and the amount of security she was under was absolutely _ridiculous_. If her situation hadn't been so horrible, she might have laughed. _Hey Mum! Hey Dad! My prison cell is guarded by twenty-five armed men! Thought I wasn't worth much, huh? Well, guess again!_

That thought just made her cry harder, her pale grey eyes welling up with tears. She wanted to sleep, to forget everything that had happened two weeks ago, but she knew she couldn't, because if she slept, the dreams-that-weren't-really-dreams would come, and Moriarty would be watching. He was always watching. Watching, and recording, and using it against the only person who could save her. But she couldn't think about him, she _couldn't, _what if the scanners in her room worked and he could tell? Sherlock was- _no, stop, stop thinking about him, stop it Alana, get him out of your head, you know what happens next and then he can use you, stop it NOW!_

Her brainwaves must have spiked on the screen outside, because one of the guards shot a bullet into the ceiling outside, making her flinch. _Bullets, guns, men with no faces, blood, pain, Mum, Dad, no, stop, stop. _Her life was a horror movie, and there was no hero to save her. None. And she couldn't even save herself.

Voices mumbled in the corridor, if she wanted to she could hear them but – _he's there, Moriarty's outside, he's there, I can feel him, no, stop, haven't I done enough for you already?_

A beeping of security locks, the whirring of the thumbprint access, the retinal scan and finally, James Moriarty, consulting criminal and destructor of her life, stepped into the room.

"Pleased to see me?" he said with a smirk. "Or, are you yearning to smash my brains out, push me off cliffs, and invade my mind until I become a vegetable?"

Alana didn't respond, only glared at him.

"Oh, I see, it's the latter. Well, fortunately for you, dear Alana, you will never, _ever_ get the chance to DO THAT!" he screamed, and then composed his face again.

"I just hate it when people threaten me, even when they think I can't hear. It makes me so… put out. Do you know what I mean?" he said, sounding almost childish. "It just makes me _so_ mad. And do you know what happens to people when I get mad?" he said softly, walking towards her cot, like a snake in motion.

Alana refused to bait him. She'd learned that swearing and attacking were pointless. The first time she swore at him, he hit her. The second time, he'd deprived her of water for two days.

"Well, you see… _you_ happen. I take you out somewhere, we find you a victim, some unsuspecting person, but do you know what that's for? _Practice_," he hissed. "_Practice_. And oh, one person's made me _very_ cross indeed. Do you know his name? Perhaps you've heard of him."

"_Sherlock_."

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock._ The name echoed around the cell. Alana felt sick. Of course, she had expected this. Of course. Moriarty's grudge against Sherlock Holmes was almost as big as his ego, and that was saying something. But so soon? She'd wanted to try a bit more, lower her brainwaves enough to try and communicate, with _someone, anyone, _but Moriarty had other plans.

"Now, my sweet, do your little trick. I want Sherlock this time, not Doctor Watson, don't think you can pretend you don't know which is which. Now."

Alana closed her eyes, searching, praying that he was asleep, trying to hope, but in vain. _Does he __ever__ sleep? _she wondered. His consciousness was burning, burning in her mind, searing, flaming, his genius and his thoughts and his deductions, running through her so quickly that she winced and shuddered.

While Alana was finding Sherlock, Moriarty stood watching, his head cocked to the side like a curious child, smiling at her pain, smiling because he had the greatest weapon in the whole entire world, smiling because Sherlock would finally be his.

Alana gasped and opened her eyes. They were piercing blue and seemed to look through Moriarty in scorn. He repressed a shudder, because they were his archenemy's eyes; Sherlock's eyes. He turned on a small recorder in his pocket, waiting for what would happen next.

"Moriarty where why how weapon what weapon not possible not physical weapon JOHN STOP I'M THINKING possible victim who is she where's Lestrade with the kidnapping names if he calls John can pick up calling's bad what about Molly she's a girl might need her for girl if found kidnapping and Moriarty and everything victims unrelated why don't I know Moriarty Moriarty the game is on Moriarty I need to find Moriarty no one hurts my John and stop stop stop no back to Moriarty how how HOW? NOT YOU JOHN, I'M THINKING OUT LOUD how could he possibly do that some sort of logical explanation must find stronghold ask Mycroft tomorrow I hate Mycroft Moriarty will be captured once and for all –"

Alana gasped and flinched, her eyes turning grey again. She hadn't been strong enough to keep up the connection for longer and she hoped Moriarty wouldn't be angry with her. She chanced a glance up at Moriarty.

He was laughing. Laughing.

"Thanks, pet," he said, and walked out of the door.

Shivering, Alana curled up on her bed, knowing that it would be a long and sleepless night, but wishing that morning would never come.


	3. The Violin

**THREE**

* * *

_the violin_

* * *

It was common for Sherlock to play his violin when he was thinking. He sometimes even composed or began to memorize pieces quite late in the evening, while John was trying to sleep. Those were generally soothing and actually helped John fall asleep faster.

However, John awoke at two in the morning to Sherlock playing some high-pitched and _very_ loud aria on that bloody violin. _It's a wonder that the whole __street__ isn't awake,_ John thought, grumpily getting up and tying his dressing gown around him, prepared to go downstairs and make Sherlock shut up.

He walked down the stairs and paused surprisedly at the sight.

Sherlock usually wore an expression of vague content, or at most, mild annoyance while playing the violin. It was his preferred drug of choice for calm (or, at least, the only one John would allow). He also claimed that he thought better while playing the violin.

But the face of Sherlock Holmes, was, undoubtedly, the most intense and frustrated one that John had ever seen. He seemed to be venting, pouring out all his anger and discontent (perhaps at the case?) into his violin music.

The music swelled, grew louder and louder and finally culminated in one, drawn out note. John looked on worriedly. On the outside, Sherlock had seemed nothing except mildly annoyed with this impossible case. On the inside, though, it was clear that he was simmering with fury and anger, perhaps not at Moriarty but at himself, for not knowing. Not knowing who or what Moriarty had turned into a weapon. And perhaps a little fear shown through, in that intensity in which he had abandoned himself to the music. Fear for himself? Fear for his career? What _did _Sherlock fear?

John resolved to make Moriarty pay for Sherlock's fear.

* * *

Sherlock walked to the couch and flopped down.

His playing hadn't helped a bit. He was still frustrated, tired, and _incredibly_ annoyed. This case didn't make sense. He'd wracked his mind palace, going through all the closets and the crannies, even entering the wing he'd swore he'd never go in again.

Nothing.

Was he slipping? He knew he was cleverer than Moriarty, _knew_ it, but then how could Moriarty keep outsmarting him? _How?_

Worst of all, he kept feeling shivers down his spine, like someone was watching him. Cameras, perhaps? He wouldn't put it past Moriarty.

But he felt as if it was a presence, almost like a ghost, (if he believed in ghosts, which he didn't. Highly illogical. People die and that's that.)

He'd never mention it to John, though. John didn't need to bear his problems. He had enough of his own without Sherlock's as well.

Sherlock could do it.

At least, he hoped he could.

* * *

A/N

Hey, all! Sorry for the short chapter. And I know, you want some telepathic butt-kicking from Alana. It's coming, I promise. Please review and make my day! Thanks. :D


	4. The File

**FOUR**

* * *

_the file_

* * *

John came out of his bedroom in the morning, yawning and heading to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He opened the pantry, tossed aside a few dried out eyeballs, and saw a knife.

Sherlock, apparently, had stuck a note into the side of John's box of tea with a knife, knowing that that was the first place John would go in the morning.

The letter said:

_John - out. Must pry information from brother dearest on Moriarty's stronghold. If Lestrade calls, tell him to text me. ~ Sherlock. _

_P.S. We're out of milk again._

John sighed, pulled the knife out of his tea box, and put the kettle on.

* * *

Alana opened her eyes. There was something in front of her face, dark and blurry. Blearily, she rubbed them, and opened them again.

She gasped and jerked back.

It was Moriarty.

"Had a nice sleep, sweetheart?" he smiled. Far too brightly. Something bad was going to happen. "You've been sleeping for _ages_. Getting used to the idea of being my best assassin?"

She spat in his face.

"Ooh, feisty. That's the spirit. Today, we're going to take a little… _field trip_. Do you like field trips, Alana? I do, _ever_ so much. And even better, we're going to go see a… friend of mine. I believe you know him? His name is Doctor Watson," he said.

Alana was surprised. She thought that he would want Sherlock. He read the look on her face perfectly.

"Oh, are you surprised? Don't worry, this is just more _practice_. But NO KILLING!" he shouted. "Because then, poor Sherlock wouldn't know _what_ to do, and we want him on his best game, don't we, sweetie? We want Sherlock Holmes on par for you… otherwise, it's too easy, isn't it?"

Alana despised him with a passion for being right. It _was_ easy. One snap of her fingers and the bones would crack, the heart would stop. It was easy, and that's why she had to escape.

She didn't know what would happen to her if she stayed.

* * *

"Sherlock, we don't know. Goodness me, don't you think we'd have tried to get him by now if we did?"

Sherlock frowned. "Nothing at all? No large bunkers built recently? No signs of him or his accomplices?"

"Nothing," Mycroft Holmes stated bluntly. "However, this may be of some interest to you."

He held up a large, brown file. "This is the girl you wanted, I believe? The police did a DNA test… it matched perfectly. Lestrade told me to give it to you, though if I wanted, I most certainly could keep it."

Sherlock snatched it out of his hands and opened it. He scanned through the files. Father (dead), mother (dead), younger brother (kidnapped at time of parents' death), and her. Alana Emilia Cooper. 16 years old, brown hair, grey eyes, 7 stone, 1.7 meters tall. Also kidnapped, (presumably by Moriarty) approximately two weeks ago.

He pulled out a newspaper clipping and furrowed his eyebrows.

It stated that several walls had collapsed onto a couple of teenage boys outside of the school where Alana went. Apparently, they had been talking with her, and she had gotten upset. The argument hadn't gone any further, because at that point, the walls had collapsed. Both the boys had survived, but had had to be hospitalized.

Alana had sustained no damage.

The walls had missed her by inches. It was remarkable coincidence.

Sherlock didn't believe in coincidences.

"What is this?" he asked. "It's nearly impossible that the walls could have missed her like that."

"That's why we have a file," Mycroft said. "There have been some other… incidents concerning her that are remarkably similar."

"Perhaps she had created some kind of new technology that allowed her to do this," Sherlock said.

"Mmm. Perhaps she's a young Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said sardonically.

Sherlock ignored him, and responded with his own kind of cutting reply.

"Well, good day, Mycroft. Try and lose some more weight, hmm?"

He smirked, and walked out the door.


	5. The Field Trip

**FIVE**

* * *

_the field trip_

* * *

John had just started to update his blog about the fourth murder and the fact that Sherlock was stumped when the doorbell rang.

It didn't sound like a client, but he figured Mrs. Hudson would get it. Then he remembered that she was out shopping.

He got up, went downstairs, and opened the door. A young girl was standing there.

* * *

On the car ride to Baker Street, Alana racked her brains, trying to figure out what she could do.

Thank God Moriarty didn't want her to kill him. She'd had a few looks into his mind while trying to fool Moriarty (never worked) and she could see that he was a caring and compassionate man. She didn't want to hurt him.

Also, when Sherlock found out what she had done, he'd hunt her with a passion.

"_No one hurts my John,_" he had thought last night, and the anger with which he had said it had almost knocked her out of his mind.

Too late. The driver pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street. Moriarty grinned and opened his laptop. Alana shuddered as he pulled up the video chat.

On the screen was her little brother.

When Moriarty had kidnapped her, he'd also kidnapped her brother. Not because he was special, or because he had powers. He'd kidnapped Oliver so Alana would obey him.

In the screen, a heavily armed guard stood behind him. Alana knew that at the slightest gesture from Moriarty, he would fire.

She couldn't let him get hurt.

* * *

"Hello," John said, a bit puzzled. "Um, are you here for Sherlock Holmes? He's out right now, sorry."

"Um, well, I've gotten a bit lost," the girl said. "Could I come inside and wait, and maybe call my mum?" At this, tears filled her eyes, which she angrily swatted away.

"Yes, of course!" John said. "You can use my phone."

The girl slumped a bit, almost as if she wished he hadn't said yes. But that was ridiculous.

"Thanks, " she said. "I've seen you in the papers, I just thought, since I was here…"

"Of course, come in," John said warmly. "What's your name?"

"Alana," she said. "Alana Cooper."

Alana stepped inside 221B with John Watson. The door closed.

In the car, Moriarty smiled.

* * *

Alana sat on a well-worn couch inside the flat, sipping a mug of tea, and sizing up her opponent.

She could tell he didn't have a gun, (silent telepathy was helpful sometimes) and no other weapons were really in the room. Well, except for the knives stuck in the wall, but it looked like they were in pretty deep.

She grimaced.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson?"

John came in from the kitchen with his own cup of tea, saying, "Yes?"

"I'm really, really sorry about this."

John had only a moment to look confused before Sherlock's "friend's" skull hit him in the back, knocking him over.

He looked up, now even more confused and angry, and his jaw dropped open.

Alana was levitating above the floor, and a fair amount of his and Sherlock's possessions were swirling around her like a tornado.

She gestured with her hands, and books started flying out from the shelves, hitting him and cutting gashes in his skin.

Forced down by the mound of junk landing on top of him, John had time only to cry, "SHERLOCK!" before a dictionary hit him on the head.

Lights out.

* * *

Alana landed on the floor and surveyed the small mountain of books and papers covering John.

One of his hands was sticking out of the pile.

She grabbed it, feeling for a pulse, letting out a sigh of relief when she found one.

"Sorry," she whispered.

She ran down the stairs and out the front door, back to the car, back to Moriarty, back to the cell, and back to his torture.

She hoped that Sherlock would find her quickly.


	6. The Video

**SIX**

* * *

_the video_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes walked into 221B Baker Street with the file on Alana Cooper in his hands.

As he walked up the stairs, he heard a moan.

"John?" he asked. "Is that you?"

He stepped into the flat and his brow darkened.

A large pile of his and John's heaviest books as well as several other possessions (his skull!) was in the center of the flat.

A hand poked feebly out from underneath it.

Sherlock rushed to the room and started pulling books off the pile.

"John? Can you hear me? Stay calm; I'll get you out. " And then, to himself, "I leave the flat for _one_ hour …"

Finally, Sherlock managed to free John enough so that he could lift him onto the couch. He had a nasty bruise starting to form over one eye, but his pulse was steady and his breathing regular. He'd also sustained a mild concussion. He'd have an awful headache when he came to, but would be all right.

John moaned and tried to sit up.

"No, no, no," Sherlock said. "Lie down. You have a minor concussion. Moving will just make your head hurt more. What happened?"

Slowly, John recounted the story of the girl whom he had invited into the flat.

Sherlock sniggered.

"You were taken out by a sixteen-year old? I thought you were a _soldier_."

John ignored him (though by the slight furrowing of his brow Sherlock could tell he was bothered by this as well) and continued to recount their exchange.

When he mentioned the girl's name, Sherlock slowly turned round.

"Her name. Say her name again."

John looked confused. "She said it was Alana Cooper. Why, do you know her?"

"So," Sherlock muttered to himself, "Teenage assassin? But then why would she dump books on you, that doesn't make sense… Why is Moriarty using her to attack people?"

"Sherlock." John said.

"Maybe she's invented some kind of special weapon… no, that doesn't make sense, Moriarty could just steal it, he doesn't need her…"

"_Sherlock_." John said insistently. "She didn't touch me."

"So, a weapon, then. What kind, what'd it look like?"

"Will you shut _up,_ Sherlock? I'll just _tell_ you, for God's sake." John said.

"Hmm. Go on," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"She never touched me. She said, 'I'm sorry about this,' and then your skull hit me in the back."

'What?" Sherlock said, confused for once in his life.

"Yes, your skull. It knocked me over and when I looked up, she was _flying_."

Sherlock scoffed. Clearly, John had hit his head harder than he had thought.

"Flying? That's impossible, John. The amount of energy – "

"Sherlock. I know what I saw. She was floating, and all our stuff was around her, and then all the books started flying towards me and burying me." John said exasperatedly.

"I think you need to rest," Sherlock said.

His text alert sounded in his pocket.

_Need proof?_

_xxx M_

Below was a link to a very heavily encrypted video. Sherlock clicked on it.

A video of Baker Street popped up. From it, he could see a brown haired girl seemingly levitating while John was being pelted with books. A tornado of possessions swirled around her.

Sherlock watched, a muscle twitching in his jaw, as John was hit with a dictionary and was knocked out. The girl landed softly, then checked his pulse and whispered, "Sorry," before running out the door.

Not possible.

Sherlock resolved to find the logical explanation for all this.

* * *

Moriarty came into her cell at midnight.

"No rest for the wicked, Miss Cooper, and certainly, dumping a pile of books on poor Doctor Watson could not be considered kind," Moriarty smirked.

He was very pleased with his new minion, and as long as he had those videos of her brother, she would remain his.

Alana ignored him.

"Now, Sherlock Holmes again, dear, could you ring him for me?" he said, dead seriously. "You know what happens if you don't."

She sighed, resigned and searched him out.

He wasn't in Baker Street.

Moriarty saw her puzzlement. "What. Is. It."

"He's not there," she said quaveringly. "He's not at his flat."

"Well, find him anyways. You have, oh, I'd say, about a minute before the bullets start flying at poor Oliver!"

Alana quickly closed her eyes, stretching her mind out as far as she could. A clock was ticking somewhere in her brain. 48. 47. 46.

Too short an amount of time. She gave up on Sherlock and invaded John's head instead, trying to find out where he had gone.

_Mycroft._

39\. 38. 37.

She sought out the elder Holmes brother and found Sherlock's presence there too.

She opened her eyes, now Sherlock's blue, and Moriarty smiled.

"how how how not possible telekinesis is not possible who is she how did Moriarty edit that video how did he even get that video BROTHER DEAREST, THIS VIDEO CANNOT BE REAL but what if it is no not possible back to logic and reason they don't support telekinesis but how else THAT COULD BE A POSSIBILITY, MYCROFT, BUT HOW COULD HE EDIT IT IN SUCH A SHORT TIME but then again telekinesis would explain the impossible murders no footprints – "

She released Sherlock, pretending that she couldn't hold the connection any longer.

"You're confusing him, pet. The great Sherlock Holmes. How interesting. I wonder if a sixteen-year old girl has ever confused him before. Yes, tonight will be a sleepless one for dear Sherlock. Ta ta. See you in the morning…or maybe sooner." Moriarty smiled evilly and walked out.

Alana focused her mind. She would not sleep tonight. She would reach out and practice levitating, and figure out a way to get Sherlock.

_Get Sherlock. Get Sherlock. Get Sherlock._

The words repeated over in her head like a mantra.

She would get Sherlock.

If not in the way that Moriarty expected.


	7. The Dream

**SEVEN**

* * *

_the dream_

* * *

All was still in 221B.

It was 4 AM, and Sherlock was thinking. About Moriarty, about Alana, and about that video.

It wasn't possible. It just wasn't.

He had to do more research.

He pulled John's laptop towards him (his was in the bedroom, much too far) and quickly cracked John's new passcode. It was STOPBLOODYCRACKINGTHECODE. He smirked, and changed it to westillneedmilkjohn. He opened up a web page and started researching telekinesis.

The more he scanned the Internet, the more he was convinced she wasn't real. Well, the girl, maybe, but her "powers"? No. He closed his eyes, put his fingers beneath his chin, and began to think about where Moriarty could be hiding.

The click of the keys on John's laptop opened his eyes quickly. He wasn't touching them, but… they were typing.

_H_

_E_

_L_

_P_

Sherlock's mind was whirling. Who needed help? How were they doing this? A virus of some kind?

_Not a virus, me. Alana, _the computer typed.

What? Did she know what he was thinking, too? Please. Moriarty was going a bit overboard with this whole "magical girl" thing.

_Yes. I know what you're thinking. Can you help me? _

He started to type back, when –

_No. Don't type. Easier to read your mind. M's got me and my brother. He's making me hurt people._

Like John? If she had really done that, there was no way he would help her.

_Please? I'm sorry about Mr. Watson, I had to. M would have killed my brother if I didn't. Is he okay?_

Hmmph. He still thought it was a virus. That, or he was hallucinating from lack of sleep.

_I'll prove it. _

_Right now John is dreaming. He's dreaming of Moriarty at the pool except I was there too and I pulled the gun out of your hands and you both died… oh, he's awake now._

_Please help._

_I'll do it again tomorrow, if you'd like to talk, but I'm in a red brick building near Cambridgeshire, I think._

_Wait he's coming don't think about me, please –_

Here the message cut off, probably because Moriarty had come into the room or something. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He still didn't believe her. Definitely a virus.

Still, the virus had said not to think about the virus, so he turned his attention back to researching telepathy. He stored their exchange in his Mind Palace so he wouldn't think about it.

It had to be a trick.

* * *

John woke up, panting. He had had a bad dream. In it, he was at the pool again, and so was Moriarty and Sherlock, but so was that girl. Alana. At a gesture from Moriarty, she pulled the gun from Sherlock's hands.

Moriarty had smiled, and the snipers had fired.

But before the bullet had hit him, he had awoken.

He thought he heard Sherlock typing downstairs. That repetitive clicking was soothing, and he wanted to fall back asleep, but his head hurt too much.

How? How had she done that? A sixteen-year old beating up a war veteran… with _books. _John was a bit ashamed of that fact.

But was she really telekinetic? He knew what he saw… or thought he did. A floating, deadly girl. She could have pulled the knives out of the wall and killed him.

So why hadn't she?

Moriarty. That was the only reason. She was kidnapped by him (Sherlock had showed her the file) as was her brother, probably. Moriarty hadn't wanted him dead. If he had, he would be.

The typing stopped, and on that pleasant thought, John slowly went back to sleep.

* * *

"Hello hello hello, sweetie! You're awake! Just so you know, that was_ amazing, _what you did yesterday."

Moriarty beamed as he walked into her cell.

She had been communicating with Sherlock – _finally. _It had taken all of her strength, plus some she didn't know she had to keep her brainwaves low while typing on the laptop while getting into Sherlock's mind.

At least he'd know she wasn't a computer virus when John woke up.

"Now, tell me that didn't feel awesome. You beat up a soldier! I bet you could take out everyone outside this door if I didn't have your brother."

"It didn't," Alana said.

"Didn't what?"

"Didn't feel good. Beating up an honourable man, a soldier? A good man? No. It didn't feel good at all."

Moriarty sneered. "Well, what would you know?"

He turned on his heel and walked out.

Alana let out a shaky breath.

She wasn't sure if Sherlock had stopped thinking about their exchange and if Moriarty had asked her to go in his mind, she wasn't sure what would have happened.

She'd try to talk to him again tomorrow.

Hopefully, he'd believe she was real this time.

But with Sherlock Holmes, nothing ever went as planned.

* * *

A/N: Hey all! Thanks so much for reading and following/favouriting! Special awesomeness points to OfTardisesAngelsandScarves, who not only has a cool name, but is also a really cool reviewer. Thanks!

So… Tense Sherlock not believing in Alana! What'll happen next? And exactly how long will it take before Alana beats up Moriarty? And what'll happen to Oliver?

Only time will tell… Hee hee!

* evil laugh *


	8. The Visit

**EIGHT**

* * *

_the visit_

* * *

Sherlock hadn't slept for a week and a half.

What with Alana, the telekinesis video, the murders, Moriarty, and the typing on the keyboard last night, he had had no time for such petty things.

But it was starting to wear him down. He wasn't a machine, after all, and sleep _was _necessary… once in a while.

_Tonight, _he thought. _I'll sleep tonight._

_Maybe._

John walked into the room in his dressing gown and picked up the papers.

"Morning," he said cheerfully. "You look terrible. How long has it –"

"A week," Sherlock replied tersely.

John looked rather stunned. "A_ week?_ Sherlock, that isn't healthy – "

Once again Sherlock cut him off. "Speaking of sleep, did you have any strange dreams last night?"

John frowned. "Well, one… but how'd you know? I don't talk in my sleep."

"Tell me about it. Now."

John looked puzzled, but said, "In my dream, we were back at the pool with Moriarty. Except that girl Alana was there too, and she dragged the gun out of your hands and… well. We died. Then I woke up. But how, exactly did you – Sherlock?"

Sherlock's face had turned even paler than usual, which was saying something.

"She knew…" he trailed off. "She told me about your dream."

"What? When? But… that's not possible. You can't see other peoples' dreams! You just can't."

"But she did."

Sherlock sprang up and started pacing the floor, then just as quickly flopped back down again.

"I need to meet her, John, do some experiments, find out _why _she can do these things. Cambridgeshire… bricks… where? Isolated, maybe, or in public… Moriarty wants to throw me off if I do find out where he is, but where? Where? WHERE?" he roared, and John flinched a bit.

"Sherlock, you can't think while you're tired… go sleep for a couple of hours, okay?"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock stood upright again. "What. Are. You. Doing. In. The. Flat."

Mycroft Holmes had been standing in the door for about a minute now.

"Watching your little tantrum, brother dearest. I'd suggest you take your doctor's advice… you _are_ looking a bit peaked."

Sherlock snarled, flopped back on the couch, and turned towards the wall.

"Umm… John said, a bit awkwardly, "any news on Alana?"

"Well, first I'd like to know _how _exactly my brother knew where she was before I had told him. We just tracked his trail to Cambridgeshire last night, and I hadn't texted him yet."

John furrowed his eyebrows and said, "Yeah, Sherlock, and I want to know how you knew she knew about my dream."

"Knew about your dream?" Mycroft turned to John with a look of genuine surprise, something that didn't appear on the eldest Holmes's face very often.

Sherlock turned back around.

"I was researching telekinesis at four in the morning when the keys started typing themselves."

"Virus," Mycroft said instantly.

"A virus that knew about John's dream and had a conversation with me while I wasn't talking and in response to my thoughts? Oh yes, I'm sure John forgot to get the update protecting against that one."

He rolled his eyes at Mycroft.

"In…response to your thoughts." Mycroft stated.

"Mmm." Sherlock replied.

"Well, that girl could be _very_ useful… if you weren't hallucinating from lack of sleep. Goodbye, Sherlock, goodbye Doctor Watson. I'll call if I track anything more about Moriarty."

"Text, don't call." Sherlock rolled over again.

Mycroft smiled and swung his umbrella over his shoulder and left Baker Street.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. "Get that for me, John."

"No."

"Dressing gown pocket."

John sighed, walked over and retrieved Sherlock's phone from his dressing gown.

* * *

In a red brick building in Cambridgeshire, Moriarty laughed and looked at his phone. Playing games with Sherlock was _sooo_ fun. He couldn't wait to see how'd he'd respond to this one.


	9. The Text

**NINE**

* * *

_the text_

* * *

_Do you want to help Alana?_

_If so, respond yes to this text._

_I'm being watched._

_W_

Sherlock frowned.

"What's it say?" John asked.

"It's from someone named W. It says that if I want to help Alana, I should reply yes to the text. He or she says that they're being watched."

"Well, aren't you going to text them?" John asked.

"Why should I? It's probably a trick of some sort." Sherlock replied bitingly.

"Sherlock, a minute ago you were demanding that we find her so you could "experiment" on her!" John said .

"Fine."

He texted _Yes_ to the number.

Despite what he had said to John, his heart was leaping. This girl and her supposed powers could be the most interesting diversion of his life. But he had to keep up his façade so that John wouldn't see. His phone buzzed.

_I'm a guard working for M, and I want out. If I get you here secretly, can you get her?_

_I've got a daughter about her age, and might as well take her with me while I leave, right?_

_The things Moriarty does to her… I can't go in her cell… but I hear him…_

_Why does he want her?_

_W_

Sherlock inhaled. This was a very delicate situation. This "W", whoever he was (word phrasing, tone, and the fact that he was a guard increased the possibility that he was male) was playing a dangerous game. It's possible that this was genuine, but either way, it would not do to alert the guard to the exact value of Alana.

Fake? A trick? Real? His sleep-deprived brain was faltering – no. It wasn't. He was fine. He knew what to do.

_If you get me in, I'll get her out._

He pressed _send_.

His choice was made.

* * *

Moriarty chuckled. Sherlock was playing right into his hands. He'd calculated how long Sherlock could function without sleep, and Sherlock's mental functions would be deteriorating about now. Once he'd had the calculations, it was easy to use Alana to murder those people so the crime scene looked "impossible" to Sherlock, thereby _ensuring _a lack of sleep.

He rose, adjusted his jacket, and slipped "W's" phone in his pocket. He'd get one of his most loyal guards to be W, then trap and _kill_ Sherlock.

He couldn't wait.

There was the small matter of Alana, though… leave her to her own devices (Sherlock would be more convinced), or make sure she knew what to do?

The former. It'd be _soo_ fun.

But maybe not. He was changeable, after all.


	10. The Powers

**TEN**

* * *

_the powers_

* * *

Alana had become _so_ much more powerful over these last few weeks.

When she first found out that she'd had the power, it was fun. A little trick for her and her alone. But soon her telepathy had scared everyone off. Who would want a best friend that could see what you were thinking all the time?

No one, that's who.

They didn't _know_, strictly speaking, that she was telepathic, but something about her was just off. She knew things, they whispered. Could read you like a book.

Some had even compared her to Sherlock Holmes.

But her skill was not deduction, it was an invasion. She invaded their minds, but by accident; when she figured it out, she had stopped.

She didn't want their worries and troubles and secrets on top of her own.

Well, mostly stopped. There had been a couple of accidents. Like that one with the brick wall and the two boys who had had to be hospitalized.

That one had even made the paper.

But her life had been relatively normal, until that night came, and the men in black, and the guns and screaming and dark cars, and the cell.

Her parents were dead. Obviously. Oliver was alive, and that was why she let herself be Moriarty's puppet. He was her responsibility, always had been.

She had to look out for him.

If he died, what would she do?

Through Moriarty's torture, her power had grown. Out of hate, or fear, or desperation, she didn't know. Things she had struggled with, before, came so easily.

She'd even managed to bust the brainwave scanner so that it always showed normal brain activity.

But Sherlock was coming. She knew that. If not for her sake, then for his revenge.

Revenge on her for hurting John, revenge on Moriarty for everything.

And once he got here, she wouldn't be safe anymore.

And neither would he.

* * *

A/N:

Hey guys! Sorry for the short chapter, but finals are happening… ugh.

I can't wait until vacation, then posts will come a lot quicker, I promise.

Stay tuned for more drama and a hell of a lot more telekinetic bashing!

(Her revenge is coming soon, and boy, is Moriarty gonna get it.)

Love you all!


	11. The Infiltration

**ELEVEN**

* * *

_the infiltration_

* * *

Sherlock and John rode silently together in the taxi.

The text with the address had come a bit earlier, and they had jumped in a taxi and were driving there.

John's gun was in the back of his jeans.

He wasn't going to trust one of Moriarty's guards.

* * *

"Alana," Moriarty called in a singsong voice, "it's showtime!"

Even though she was twelve floors below him and certainly couldn't hear him, Moriarty was excited all the same.

"W" was in place and had memorized his lines and what he was supposed to do.

Soon, the heroes would come crashing in, to liberate the poor princess from the villain.

It was shaping up to be a _perfect_ fairytale.

The hidden cameras and bugs in her room would let him absorb every detail of her "rescue".

Even better, she'd actually think she _was_ being rescued.

He sighed. Sherlock was just so _boring_ sometimes.

That's why Alana would have to teach him a lesson.

* * *

The guard met them around the back.

"I'm W," he whispered. "We don't have much time."

Sherlock deduced a couple things about him (middle-aged, teenage daughter, two cats, trained in the army) before his head started to hurt and he gave up.

John was looking a bit oddly at Sherlock, almost as if he was saying, _W__ell? Does this guy check out? Is he what he said he was?_

John didn't need to know that Sherlock was tired. And Sherlock was _fairly_ certain. He nodded yes.

"Where is she?" John asked in a low voice.

"About 10 floors down or so. The cell is guarded by a retinal scanner and a thumbprint access, but I managed to disable it while she was away with Moriarty and we were on our lunch break. I have no idea _why _she's guarded so heavily. I mean, she's what, sixteen?" He looked at John and Sherlock as if he was expecting them to tell him something, but when their faces remained impassive, he continued. "We're in a blind spot right now, but I'm on break. I only have about five minutes until I have to go back."

"Are there cameras?" Sherlock asked.

"All over the outside, but not really on the inside, only in her cell. That's why we'll have to move fast once we get her, they'll know as soon as we go inside. I can lead you out, it's a _maze_ in there."

John looked skeptical. "Remind us again _why _you're risking your life to let a girl you don't even know out of her cell?"

W shuffled his feet. "Well, like I said, I have a daughter her age. Elizabeth. I never really wanted to work for Moriarty, but when I retired from the army… well. The pay's decent, but hearing Moriarty and her in there…" he shuddered. "Seems like she needs out more than I do."

"Let's go." Sherlock popped his collar and walked behind W into Moriarty's lair.

* * *

Alana gasped. He was here. She could feel him. Like a flaming torch, a burning pillar, Sherlock Holmes's mind flared through her brain. And the doctor was there too, less bright, less burning, but warm and gentle.

They were heading towards her.

Hope rushed through her, but she suppressed it. It was possible, even likely, that Moriarty would capture them before they got to her.

Hope couldn't be relied on, these days.

* * *

Moriarty laughed, watching his agent, Sherlock, and John run through the hallways. "W" had been lying, of _course _there were secret cameras in the building.

It was amazing to see Sherlock at an almost human level of thinking.

If he was rested, he could have deducted Moriarty's whole plan from his agent's appearance, but he wasn't.

That was the point.


	12. The Prison Break

**TWELVE**

* * *

_the prison break_

* * *

Sherlock and John burst through the door of Alana's cell. It had taken a bit of work, but they had managed to get it open.

It helped that Alana was unlocking it from the inside, too.

John flinched a bit when he saw Alana. The bruises from her book tornado hadn't quite healed yet, and he was still rather apprehensive.

"You came," Alana breathed. "You really, really came."

"Yes," Sherlock replied bluntly. "Time –"

" – to go, yes," Alana replied, then smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Hmm," Sherlock muttered.

John suppressed a smile. Sherlock Holmes, possibly one of the smartest men in the world, was uncomfortable around Alana. Forget beating up a soldier with books, there was _definitely _something special about Alana if she could throw Sherlock off balance like that.

Then he remembered where they were.

"Alright, Alana, stay in between us. We're going to get you out, but we don't want to take any risks."

"Sounds good to me."

They ran out and Alana looked suspiciously at W.

"Who's he?"

"Security guard, helping us out, he's clear, now shut up, I'm concentrating."

"… okay, but do you want me to – "

"No, I don't want you to use your telepathy, it'll take too long. Now, _shut up_!"

Alana shut up, but didn't look surprised at Sherlock's rudeness. John supposed that this was because she'd been inside his head. _That_ would certainly be an experience.

* * *

W listened to Moriarty's instructions over his hidden earpiece, telling him where to go next, which tunnel in his labyrinthine fortress to take. He could hear Moriarty's glee over the earpiece.

Hopefully, he'd get a pay raise out of this.

* * *

Running through the hallways and tunnels, Alana felt a sense of suspicion. Something about W just didn't seem right. She would look into his mind, but Sherlock had told her not to, and it probably wasn't appropriate to defy her rescuers.

Still, there was something about him that was wrong.

Her thoughts were interrupted by John, who said, "Where the _bloody_ hell are we going?!" quite loudly, considering they were trying to escape unnoticed.

"We're almost there," W said, "We're almost out, we just have to go through one more room and then we're home free."

He opened a door and ran inside.

John, Sherlock, and Alana ran through after him.

Moriarty and a circle of armed guards were waiting inside, and they had just run right into the center.

"Damn." John said, and pulled out his gun.

* * *

Sherlock spun around, taking in the situation. Many little lasers appeared on each of their chests… except W's, because he had joined the rest of the guards and was pointing a gun at them, too.

"W. Did you _never_ wonder what that stood for?" Moriarty asked mockingly.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, "but since you're obviously going to tell me…"

"W stands for _WHOOPS! _Sherlock Holmes made a mistake, a very big mistake. You know what that mistake was? He should have listened to his doctor."

Moriarty strolled around them.

"Because, seriously, the great Sherlock Holmes falling for a trick like this? It's pathetic, absolutely pathetic. Lack of sleep does _such_ terrible things to a person, doesn't it?"

Throughout this, Alana had been very quiet.

Sherlock gazed intensely at her, seeing what Moriarty had not.

Moriarty walked up to her, and his face darkened as he saw what her eyes looked like.

They were no longer grey.

"What the hell…" John's voice trailed off as he, too, saw her eyes.

They were flashing, changing different colors, blue to brown to green and every different color that a human eye could be.

Moriarty slapped her, and she fell to the floor, her eyes reverting back to their original grey and rolling up in her head as she hit her head and passed out.

John quickly knelt beside her, taking her pulse, and glaring at Moriarty.

"You bastard, she's _sixteen_, for God's sake."

"Yes," Moriarty replied, "but she can still beat me up, and I don't really like that. Did you, Doctor Watson?"

"But then how did you control her?" Sherlock spoke up. "I've seen some of the things she can do, and I… ah. Of _course_. You used her brother."

Moriarty snapped his fingers, and one of the guards pulled out a laptop and opened it. On it was a video of a boy, about ten years old, with a gun held to his head. His resemblance to Alana was startling, except that he had brown eyes instead of grey.

"Sentiment, Sherlock, sentiment. What older sibling _wouldn't _do anything for their younger one?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock responded immediately.

"Really? The Iceman might melt when it comes to his little brother, mightn't he? Well, I guess we'll never find out, will we now. But now back to business. Alana is such a useful thing to have around, don't you think? It's _soo_ much easier to get away with murder when you've got a telepathic and telekinetic person on your side… and a video of her brother, of course."

John glared at Moriarty. "What are you going to do, then, kill us?"

"Yes." Moriarty smiled happily. "Ms. Adler won't be around to save you this time, Sherlock, and there's no bomb vest for you to blow me up with. It's just you and me. _Now _try to outwit me, Sherlock Holmes. Try, but you'll fail. Because you two won't be dying by a bullet, not today. No, you'll be dying at the hands of your favorite telepath."

* * *

A/N: Hi guys! I'm so sorry it's been such a long wait, and a cliffhanger, too, just to be mean. ;D School just got out, so I'll be able to write much more quickly now. Thanks for sticking with me! Love you all!


	13. The Countdown

**THIRTEEN**

* * *

_the countdown_

* * *

_Moriarty smiled happily. "Ms. Adler won't be around to save you this time, Sherlock, and there's no bomb vest for you to blow me up with. It's just you and me. __Now__ try to outwit me, Sherlock Holmes. Try, but you'll fail. Because you two won't be dying by a bullet, not today. No, you'll be dying at the hands of your favorite telepath."_

Alana's eyes opened.

"Good!" Moriarty beamed. "Now the fun can start."

Alana looked back at him coldly.

"So, you know the drill, sweetie. I want the doctor and Mr. Holmes dead – preferably slowly. If not, my guards go _pew pew pew_! Those here and those with your lovely little brother."

Alana slowly stood up, not taking her eyes off of Moriarty.

"Hellooo? Did you hear me? I want them DEAD! NOW!" he screamed.

"Fine." Alana turned to face Sherlock and John.

"Alana, please…" John trailed off, realizing that it was no use. What wouldn't he do for his sister?

"I'm getting kind of impatient!" Moriarty sang. "Do you need a little incentive? Here's one!"

The electronic clock on the wall started flashing a countdown.

"I _looove_ ticking clocks. They're so… me."

_5._

Moriarty grinned like a child at Christmas.

4.

Alana inhaled deeply, clenching her hands into fists.

_3._

Sherlock turned around, searching for something, anything, that could save him and John from Alana.

_2._

The lasers danced on their chests.

_1._

John looked to Sherlock desperately, fear in his eyes.

_0._

The room exploded in a wave of pressure and light, with all the guards and Moriarty flying into the walls. The only people not affected were Sherlock, John, and Alana, who were standing right in the middle – the eye of the storm.

Alana was standing at the middle with her eyes flashing. The guards, recovering from their fall, started shooting, but Alana deflected the bullets with a wave of her hand. She slowly started to lift off the ground.

Sherlock's mouth almost dropped open.

John nudged him and shouted, "I told you it wasn't a trick!"

Alana whirled her hand around, taking out a guard who was sneaking up from the side. She then made a little pinching motion with her hand, and all the guards dropped to the floor.

"Cartoid artery…" Sherlock said, a bit stunned. "She must have cut off their blood supply."

The only person that was left standing was Moriarty.

Alana floated towards him, with anger and pain in her eyes.

Moriarty smiled (a bit nervously) and said, "Honey, you defied me. That's NOT very nice. Consider your brother _dead_."

Alana raised her hand and Moriarty was dragged up the wall, held by his neck.

"LIAR!" Alana screamed.

* * *

A/N: Hee hee… more cliffhangers! I couldn't make the resolution be on chapter 13, you know, (unlucky!) But yes, it's coming! Hmmmm… what was Moriarty lying about? Any ideas? Anyone? Drop me a review, I love 'em!


	14. The Truth

**FOURTEEN**

* * *

_the truth_

* * *

_Alana raised her hand and Moriarty was dragged up the wall, held by his neck._

_"LIAR!" Alana screamed._

As she pinned Moriarty to the wall, John could see the rage in her eyes.

"He's dead," she said, her voice breaking. "He's dead, and you, you bastard, are about to die too."

"Alana, wait, stop!" John cried. "You don't know that he's dead. Maybe…"

Alana whirled towards John, still pinning Moriarty.

"I do know. I _know_ that he's dead. My brother's mind is gone. You think I can't tell? My own brother? I know it, I can tell… he's gone."

She smiled cruelly at Moriarty. "And even if I didn't, all I have to do is read _his_ mind."

She dived into Moriarty's mind, causing him the most pain she could, making him scream. Her eyes turned into his maniacal brown ones. She pulled it from the corners of his mind, where he had tried to hide it.

"Dead. Dead. Dead. Oliver Cooper is dead. They shot him. Dead. Dead. Dead."

Sherlock and John looked on in amazement (Sherlock) and horror and sadness (John).

Alana's eyes turned grey again, and she leaned in close to Moriarty and whispered coldly, "Liar."

John looked up at Alana, levitating in the air, fury written on every part of her body, pinning Moriarty against the wall, and fear filled his heart. Fear of what she could do, what she would do in her anger.

Perhaps he was scared for himself as well.

She threw Moriarty across the room, and he landed with a sickening _thump_.

Sherlock stood staring at the crumpled body of Jim Moriarty, his greatest adversary. Brought down by a teenager.

The silence of the room was penetrated by a single gunshot.

Alana twisted around, throwing out her hand to deflect it, but the bullet had already struck her shoulder. She cried out in pain and dropped to the ground like a stone. The lone soldier took aim at the huddled mass on the ground that was Alana, preparing for the kill shot.

John fired his gun, hitting the man in the chest. He collapsed to the ground.

John and Sherlock ran over to Alana, John kneeling beside her and grabbing Sherlock's scarf off of his neck, putting pressure on the wound. She had passed out for the second time in less than an hour.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft.

"What are you doing, Sherlock, she needs an _ambulance,_ not the bleeding government!" John shouted.

Sherlock turned to look at him. "You want _this _girl in a _hospital_, where _normal_ doctors can poke and pry her, not to mention an _ambulance_, which would have _paramedics_, who would also see all of _this_?" He gestured to the multitudes of unconscious guards and Moriarty's still body. "No, I'm calling Mycroft."

* * *

When Mycroft's helicopters arrived, John let out a sigh of relief. Alana was losing a lot of blood, and he could only do so much with the limited supplies he had. As Mycroft's guards poured out of the helicopters and begin cuffing people, Sherlock and John stood by and watched.

Alana was quickly put onto a stretcher, and Moriarty was cuffed as well. Alana hadn't killed him, but he did have a punctured lung and several broken ribs.

Mycroft sidled over to them. "Busy day, then?"

"Mmm. You could say that," Sherlock responded.

"And…the girl?"

"All that the video showed she was."

"Well, she will be a _very_ valuable asset, I think."

"No," John interjected, "she won't."

Mycroft turned around to him, smoothly incredulous. "I beg your pardon."

"She's sixteen, for God's sake, her parents and brother are dead, she'll think it's her fault, she's been shot, and she's scared. I wouldn't be surprised if she's got PTSD. You're not going to turn her into some bloody mercenary or assassin, not while I'm around."

Sherlock looked sideways at John, then nodded. "Yes, I think that course of action would be… unwise."

Mycroft looked astonished.

"Well, then, John, we must be off. Mrs. Hudson was making tea, wasn't she? Goodbye, brother dearest, try not to let the girl beat you up."

He smirked and walked away, John following after.

* * *

A/N: Yay, 1,000 views! Just in case you were wondering, this takes place between A Scandal in Belgravia and The Hound of Baskerville. Please, please review, guys! It only takes a second and I love to read your thoughts. (But not like Alana, ha ha!) More chapters to come!

Love and hugs!


	15. The Hospital

**FIFTEEN**

* * *

_the hospital_

* * *

Sherlock was sleeping. Finally. It was disturbing that it took a psychopath to get him to sleep.

John could hear him snoring, even through the closed bedroom door.

It was quite funny.

Sherlock had been sleeping for over eight hours, an all time record for him.

He needed it.

John heard Sherlock's mobile ring, loudly, from inside his room, then sniggered as he heard Sherlock stumbling around trying to find it.

The phone stopped ringing, and John heard Sherlock say, angrily, "What. Is. It."

John overheard the beginnings of a heated conversation between Sherlock and (probably) Mycroft before he went to make some more tea and update his blog. He wasn't sure what to say about Alana, though.

As he sat down at his computer, he saw that Sherlock had changed the passcode._ Again._ He sighed in frustration, then ducked as Sherlock burst out of his room, throwing his phone at the wall.

"Sherlock, what – " His sentence was cut off as Sherlock slammed his laptop shut, narrowly missing his fingers. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock flopped onto the couch. "Sorry, John, but this case is not to be posted, updated, or in any way 'blogged'."

He made sarcastic air quotes as he said the word _blogged_.

"What? Why?"

Sherlock grimaced. "Express order of the British Government. This case is now classified and confidential. At least the world will be spared of your writing for a bit longer…"

John ignored the insult and asked, "Did Mycroft say anything about Alana?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"I can't experiment on her," he pouted.

John rolled his eyes. No kidding. Like the government would allow that. Like _Alana_ would allow that.

Actually, the government probably just wanted to experiment on her themselves.

He could see, however, that Sherlock had genuinely not known that, and was quite upset… at least by Sherlock's standards, which were much different from the average person's. So he distracted him by asking, "What else did he say?"

"She's still at the hospital. She's not dead. She hates their food. She wants to see us sometime. She reads a lot of PTSD pamphlets and the telepathic and telekinesis pages on Wikipedia are the only things in her Internet history. Oh, and her nurse is scared to go in her room now because she's seen floating utensils."

John smiled. "Well, when are we going to see her?"

* * *

Sherlock strode out of the cab, with John following behind. John looked around curiously as they walked toward the highly secure government hospital. It was white and very clean and there were armed guards patrolling the grounds.

After passing through many, _many_, background checks and security clearances (Sherlock rolled his eyes at each one, so much so that John worried he'd strain them), they were finally admitted into Alana's room.

She was sitting up in the hospital bed, looking rather small amidst the white sheets.

"Hey," she said with a tentative smile.

John smiled back. Sherlock grunted.

"I…heard that they got Moriarty."

"That's right, they did," John answered.

There was a slightly awkward pause in which John and Sherlock looked uncomfortably at Alana, who also appeared quite uncomfortable, but the moment passed as Alana started talking again.

"Did you meet my nurse? She's working in a _top-secret_ government hospital and she finds it creepy that I float spoons. I heard the guy next door can, like, set himself on fire or something, and she thinks a floating _spoon_ is weird?"

She looked a bit embarrassed, then whispered, "Actually, I only did it once, but then she got really freaked out, so I make something float when she passes by."

John suppressed a smile. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You seem to be adjusting well."

Alana cast her eyes downward. John shot a look at Sherlock that clearly said, _Not good_.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said a bit awkwardly, "I… um… think Mycroft's outside. I'd better… " He assumed an expression of extreme distaste. "…go see him."

John smiled a bit. Even with Alana lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machines, Sherlock was still wary around her. Probably because she could take him out. Also probably because she'd been inside his head.

But back to the point. John was a doctor. He'd been in a traumatic accident. He'd been shot too. And he could see, quite plainly that she was _not _adjusting well.

She had lost her entire family and probably blamed herself. How would she ever adjust?

"Hey… Alana?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Her façade dropped completely and tears filled her eyes.

"It's my fault, isn't it."

This was a statement, not a question, and John's heart sank. Alana was broken, but he had to try to fix her.

He owed her that much.

He kneeled down by her bed, taking her hand. "No, it's not. It's not your fault, Alana, okay? It never was. You have to stay strong. You have to promise me that you won't beat yourself up."

"John, my parents are dead. So is my little brother. Do you know how old he was? Ten. His whole life was in front of him, but now – "

She broke off, crying. John felt awful. What could he say? What could he do? He wasn't that kind of doctor, and curing PTSD was beyond him. But it had happened to him, and he knew what had fixed him.

A friend.

But how the hell was she going to make friends? Shut in a government hospital, under Mycroft's (dubious) eye, and burdened with the weight of her family's deaths _and_ her powers. How would that happen?

"I have absolutely no idea," Alana responded, her eyes changing back to grey, smiling with watery eyes.

John smiled too.

* * *

A/N: Hi! Ugh… I hate hate _hate_ places with no Wi-Fi. Also, I keep saying, "I'm on vacation! I'll post a lot more!" and then I never do it. I'm _such_ a hypocrite, I know. Hopefully, the next couple of chapters will appease you, one right after another, okay? Love you all, thanks for staying with.

P.S. Fairytailchick777 asked if I would consider a sequel where John and Sherlock adopt Alana. This was actually one of my first ideas when I started writing the story, but I decided not to go down that path for a few reasons. One, I'm _awful_ at writing Parent!Lock (Believe me, I've tried). Two, I think that Alana's traumatization would make it difficult for her to adjust to life with Sherlock and John. I'm also trying to make this story as canon as possible, putting it in between ASiB and HoB, and since there is (obviously) no mention of Alana in Sherlock, I've decided she needs a different path. Great question, though, and don't worry: I've got _plans_ for Alana. Hee hee.

P.P.S. While I'm at it, I might as well do a disclaimer.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except Alana (and the idea for the story), and if you couldn't tell that I wasn't Steven Moffat by this point, you need help, my friend.


	16. The Decision

**SIXTEEN**

* * *

_the decision_

* * *

Alana stared up at the hospital ceiling, finding shapes in the tiles. It took her mind off things… sometimes.

What was she going to do?

Her parents were dead. Oliver was dead. No matter what John said, she knew it was her fault.

She still hadn't properly apologized to him for that day. She'd overheard Mycroft snickering about it one time, which was horrifying.

She hadn't known that Mycroft was capable of snickering.

But even that brought the decision she had sworn she must act on into her mind.

She had hurt so many people. Killed four innocents, hurt John, knocked out a whole bunch of people who, admittedly, were trying to kill her, and of course, killed her family.

All because of her.

All because of her powers. That's why she had decided never to use them again.

She would conceal them as deep as she could, become normal, _stay _normal.

And no one else would come close to her. She would not allow it. _No more_, she thought. _No more people will be hurt because of me_.

* * *

Several months later, the doorbell to 221B Baker Street rang. John looked out the window and saw Alana being ushered in by Mrs. Hudson. She looked healthier, but John saw the stiffness in her arm from her wound.

Sherlock was composing, violin tucked under his chin, as Alana walked in. He gave her a noncommittal nod of the head, then turned back towards the window.

Alana sat down on the couch while John got her a cup of tea. The scene was familiar and Alana couldn't help but laugh when John came around the corner looking a bit nervous.

"How's your shoulder?" he asked.

"Much better," she said. "Almost healed, in fact. I had to do a lot of physical therapy, but at least I don't have a psychosomatic limp."

She grinned at him.

"Wait... what?"

"And now we match!"

"What?"

"You have a scar from a bullet on your shoulder, too, right?:

"How did you know about – never mind."

Alana said, "Actually, Sherlock was thinking about it once, so… I just kind of absorbed it."

"Yeah, about that…" John looked around, and when he had made sure that Sherlock was absorbed, he asked softly, "What was that like? What is _any_ of it like?"

Alana looked contemplative for a moment, then said, "It's different for different people, I think. It's hard to get into Sherlock's mind, but once I do, it's kind of like a river; you just get swept along. It's easier to get into your mind – no offense," she added, looking worried, but when John nodded that it was okay, she continued. "But once I'm in your mind, it's harder to stay in. Oh, and I also wanted to apologize."

"For what?" John asked.

"For knocking you unconscious under a pile of books, that's why. But really, I am sorry, I really am."

"It wasn't your fault, Alana, you were forced to. I forgave you a long time ago."

He looked at his watch. "Time for me to leave, Alana. Um, are you staying, or…"

"Mycroft told me to stay for the day." She looked a bit uncomfortable. "I think he just wanted to annoy Sherlock, but this _is _your flat, so if you'd rather I leave – "

"Not at all," Sherlock said smoothly. John jumped. He hadn't even noticed that the music had stopped. "After all, we couldn't let Mycroft think he's won, can we?"

He winked at Alana. Alana smiled back at him. John looked at Sherlock incredulously. What had happened to "It would be best if you'd leave now"? Never mind that, since when had Sherlock been friendly to a child?

These questions were too deep for John, so he just left.

* * *

"I heard you wanted to experiment on me," Alana said.

"Mmm."

"Are they not going to let you?"

"No."

"That's too bad. I think it would have been interesting."

Sherlock looked at Alana with interest. He had never been one to purposefully _follow_ Mycroft's orders, after all. Perhaps he would be able to experiment on her after all.

"But I'm still not going to let you. Actually, it'd be kind of impossible."

Sherlock frowned, his hopes dashed. "And why would that be?"

"Because I'm not going to use my powers ever again."

Sherlock sat there in silence, acknowledging her decision.

"By the way, your thoughts are hard to keep up with."

Sherlock quirked his lips into something that _might_ have been the beginning of a smile, then looked over at Alana, wondering how much she had seen of his mind.

"Yeah, sorry about that, but you know, I kinda had to."

"So when you read someone's mind, what does it…_sound_ like?" He was unable to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but Alana didn't seem to mind.

"Well, it's like someone's talking. I mean, it's their voice, but they don't usually say complete sentences, probably because the mind isn't just thinking about one thing at a time. And then I can tell if they say something out loud, because it's a lot louder."

"Of _course_," Sherlock said sarcastically, again. Not because he didn't believe her, but more because he felt that he had to appear distant and cold, especially because she had been _inside his head_.

Alana took notice of the sarcasm this time. "I know more about you than any other person in the world, Sherlock. I have seen your deepest thoughts, I know how you feel about John, about Moriarty, about Mycroft, but most importantly, about yourself."

Sherlock blinked, once. "About myself."

"Yes. You're an insufferable twat, but John does you good. He's thawing you, Sherlock Holmes, and you are powerless to stop it. You're learning how to be a human again, and deep down, you're grateful to him for it, but on the outside, you act colder to prevent him from seeing. Well, it's too late for that, so you'd better drop the act before it's too late."

Sherlock looked at Alana in a different light.

"Do you play the violin?" he asked.


	17. The Bad Music

**SEVENTEEN**

* * *

_the bad music_

* * *

John walked up to Baker Street and heard a violin being played. Badly. Very badly.

Sherlock couldn't possibly be playing.

So who was?

* * *

Sherlock was slumped on the couch, covering his eyes and grimacing as Alana played a set of squeaky noises on his precious violin. Why had he asked if she wanted to play again?

The torture stopped, and Alana grinned. "That was absolutely terrible!"

Sherlock nodded in fervent agreement, thinking that his ears were probably permanently damaged.

"I think you may have punctured one of my eardrums."

"How long have you played?" she asked.

"Ages," he said bluntly.

"Guess I've got some more practicing to do then."

She picked up the bow and Sherlock covered his ears again.

* * *

John was still standing outside, trying to figure out if Sherlock had _actually_ let Alana play his violin and if it was safe for him to go indoors yet.

The music stopped for a minute, and John unlocked the door, thinking, _Thank goodness_.

He heard the violin start up again. He flinched a bit, but then relaxed as it settled into one of Sherlock's compositions – namely, the one John privately called "Irene's Theme", but only when Sherlock wasn't around.

He walked up the stairs and his jaw dropped.

* * *

Sherlock was sitting on the couch in astonishment, his mouth open exactly like John's. Somehow, Alana had turned from cringe-worthy to spectacular in less than a minute.

He heard John walk in and shot him a glance.

John looked incredulous. _Did you teach her that? _he mouthed.

Sherlock shook his head, but the beginnings of an explanation started to form in his mind.

Suddenly, he sprang up and stood next to Alana. Hearing him, she opened her eyes quizzically and John's mouth dropped even further, though it hardly seemed possible. Sherlock recoiled.

Her eyes were Sherlock's eyes, the piercing, icy blue that had unraveled so many cases, so many deductions.

Alana stopped playing and flinched, her eyes turning back to grey.

"My eyes…" Sherlock said softly. "Why did you have my eyes?"

"I must have… I mean, I think I was… in your mind. Well, the violin part anyway."

She set down the violin and collapsed into a chair. "Sorry, I'm so sorry."

"I thought you weren't going to use your telepathy anymore," Sherlock said.

"I'm not, I mean, I wasn't trying to… I was just thinking about how terrible I was at playing and suddenly it just appeared in my mind. It wasn't like sheet music, it was more like… a feeling. And then my hands just did that."

She covered her face with her hands. "This is going to be a lot harder than I thought."

There was an awkward pause in which John tried to figure out what to say, but then Sherlock swooped down and grabbed his violin. "My other eardrum must be kept intact, and sadly, I believe that will be impossible if you continue to play."

Alana smiled sheepishly.

John looked at Sherlock incredulously. It seemed there was more to the detective than people thought.

Sherlock picked up the bow and gave John a look that asked, _Was that okay?_

John nodded.

Sherlock smiled smugly and started to play.


	18. The Brotherly Chat

**EIGHTEEN**

* * *

_the brotherly chat_

* * *

John was feeling very uncomfortable.

He always felt so in the Diogenes Club.

Sherlock and Mycroft were having a "brotherly chat", which is what Sherlock had called it.

John should have realized the Holmes brothers' "chat" would be more like a shouting match.

John was waiting outside, at Sherlock's request. Well, more like insistence.

He wasn't even sure what they were arguing about.

* * *

"You cannot simply allow the government to take control of her!" Sherlock yelled.

"Oh, and who's going to stop me, _you_?" Mycroft was keeping his voice more under control, but still unable to keep the heavy sarcasm out of it.

"Yes."

His voice was quiet and deadly serious.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, even if I wanted to, I couldn't do anything about it. She has a government file, they already know about her and what she can do."

"She has refused to use her powers any longer."

"That does not matter. They know who she is and the danger she poses. There is no way you will be able to convince them that she can control it, or that she even should– "

Sherlock froze.

"You're going to turn her into a spy."

"_I'm_ not going to turn her into anything."

"I told you this course of action was unwise, Mycroft."

"Yes, and I couldn't believe it. The great Sherlock Holmes, concerned for a child's welfare? Who would have thought?"

"Yes," Sherlock snarled, "she _is_ a child, and you have no right – "

"And here _I _thought that you were a sociopath."

"_High-functioning _sociopath, Mycroft."

Mycroft smiled sardonically.

"Excuse me. Now, as I was _saying_, before I was so rudely interrupted…"

Sherlock's glare could have frozen boiling water.

"… we cannot _make _Alana use her powers, unfortunately. But, in the event that they are needed, and I do mean _needed_, as in desperately, unavoidably needed, I believe she could be persuaded."

"She'll never agree."

"Well, let's hope that she feels a bit more patriotic than you, brother."

Sherlock smiled, a slightly evil gleam in his eyes. "Not if I talk to her first."

* * *

Sherlock burst out of the room and ran towards the door. John glanced back into the room he had left and saw Mycroft speaking furiously into his mobile.

He ran after Sherlock, sighing as much as he could while running.

What had Sherlock got them into now?

"Saving Alana!" Sherlock yelled.

"Don't tell me you've suddenly turned into a telepath too," John said.

"No, but… never mind. I'll tell you about it later."

"And who exactly are we saving her from?" John shouted.

"My brother, the British Government!"

* * *

A/N: Hi! Just so you know, I'll be away at camp for a week… so no updates. Please don't kill me!

*cowers in fear*

Thanks for the all the reviews, guys. You all are the best.


	19. The Hospital, Again

**NINETEEN**

* * *

_the hospital, again_

* * *

Sherlock and John arrived at the hospital and quickly ran inside, Sherlock throwing open the doors.

John was fuming. He couldn't _believe _that Mycroft was trying to make Alana into a spy. No _way_ was that going to happen. Not while he was around.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and John almost ran into him. "Sherlock, wha…"

His voice died away as he saw what Sherlock had seen.

SIS agents were swarming all over the lobby, searching everywhere for... well, something.

John decided to take matters into his own hands.

He walked up to the nearest agent, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced himself.

"Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Sir!" the agent said, saluting crisply.

Sherlock looked vaguely amused.

"What's going on here?"

"Well, sir, one of the patients is missing. A dangerous one, we've been told. Top priority right now is catching them, sir."

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Show me," he said commandingly.

The agent looked slightly uncomfortable, but the insistent expression on Sherlock's face wore him down and he sighed.

"This way, sir."

John walked next to Sherlock and hissed, "What are you _doing_, Sherlock? I thought we were going to warn Alana about Mycroft!"

Sherlock waved him off. "Yes, yes, but he's not here yet. Besides, this sounds interesting! Come one, John, escaped, dangerous patient? SIS searching all over? Don't pretend you're not excited."

"Yes, but what about Alana?"

"Oh, she'll be fine. Besides, this shouldn't take too long anyway."

They took the elevator up to the third floor, then followed the agent down the hall.

John said, "Sherlock, Alana's room is right down here, 305, remember? We could just pop in on the way and warn her…"

"John. Relax. It'll take just a few minutes, and Mycroft's _still_ not here."

They walked past room 301.

"Right. Well, you go solve the case, I'm going to check on Alana."

"John, it's not _necessary_."

They walked past room 303.

"Well, it would make me feel a lot better, Sherlock, and nothing you say is going to stop me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The SIS agent stopped by room 305. "This is it, sir. The escaped patient's room."

John and Sherlock looked at each other in shock and disbelief, then sprinted into Alana's room.


	20. The Search

**TWENTY**

* * *

_the search_

* * *

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying lens, opened the window, and scanned the windowsill. He could see tiny anomalies in the wood, most likely caused by Alana's fingernails as she held onto the windowsill before… ah. Jumping into _that_ tree, the broken branch evidenced that.

But why had she escaped? Had she figured out that Mycroft (that_ idiot_) was going to turn her into a weapon? And where had she gone after getting outside?

"Sherlock?" John cut into his thoughts, annoying him. "Where is she?"

"I don't know."

John looked stunned. "Sherlock… we have to find her before Mycroft does."

"I know, I know!" He waved his hands in exasperation. "Where would she go?" he muttered to himself. "Where would she go?"

He paced the room, opening drawers and rummaging through papers.

When he was convinced there was nothing more to find in the room in the way of clues, he walked briskly out the door, John following behind him.

They walked outside the building and Sherlock wanted to scream in exasperation. Any footprints that had been there had been obliterated by the boots of the SIS.

John could see Sherlock's frustration growing, and quickly interjected, "Sherlock, maybe we should go home and see – "

"Home!" Sherlock shouted. "You want to go _hom-_"

He trailed off. "Home," he said.

"Perfect, John. Perfect."

John looked puzzled as Sherlock strode away, calling a cab and getting in.

He started towards it, but then stopped short as the cab pulled away. Without him.

He sighed and called his own cab.

"Baker Street," he said. God knew where Sherlock was going, but he wanted a cup of tea.


	21. The House

**TWENTY-ONE**

* * *

_the house_

* * *

Sherlock's cab dropped him off in front of a pale yellow house that had a slightly overgrown lawn. He paid and walked toward the house. Yes, Alana had come here. That type of mud was right outside the hospital, and that footprint in the grass was the same size.

He walked up to the front door and pushed it. It swung open with a slight creak: obviously someone was home.

He padded silently through the hallway, walking towards the stairs. His sharp eyes caught the signs of a struggle that someone had tried to clean up, but a few splatters of blood remained.

_This is where she was taken, _he thought. _This was where she watched her parents die._

Yet, when alone, she had fled here.

He walked up the stairs and opened the door to a room. It was painted blue and had pictures of football players and trophies on shelves. Obviously her little brothers'.

He closed the door and opened another.

Alana was lying on a bed, staring at her ceiling. Books covered the walls of her room.

He stood in the doorway, understanding that she would talk when ready.

After several minutes of silence, she said, "Hi."

Sherlock just stood there.

"Did they send you to get me?"

"No."

"I think your brother wants something from me."

"Yes."

"He was calling a lot before I left."

"He wants you to become a spy."

Alana was quiet, still staring at the ceiling.

"And you don't want me to, do you."

"No."

"But what will I do if I don't take his offer? Foster care? There's nowhere for me to go, otherwise."

"I could talk to Mrs. Hudson. I think 221C is available."

"No. Don't offer me that. If you truly are offering, just don't. I'd never leave, Sherlock. You and John have such an amazing life together. Full of adventure and excitement. I can't live like that, not now. I have to leave."

Sherlock recognized the truth in her statement and acknowledged it with his silence.

Alana sighed. "I think maybe I'll go to America. Try and start a new life. Maybe I can get Mycroft to get me to do something for the government there. Without my powers."

"You could still have a childhood."

She laughed softly. "And what do you know about a childhood? I know yours was… far from the ordinary."

This was a fair point.

"Sherlock, I'm not magical. Just impossible. And if the only way to get my freedom is to be a government agent, then I'll do it. But I'll do it on my own merit, and not with the help of my powers. Who knows? Maybe they'll disappear."

Sherlock felt a twinge of regret. He liked Alana well enough. She had seen his mind, and so he should hate her, but instead he felt compassion. How long had it been since he had last felt that?

She said, "Are you going to take me back?"

"Yes," he replied.

She sighed. "I'm ready now."

He held out his hand, a rare gesture. Alana understood this, and took it with a smile.

* * *

A/N: Hi guys! The story's almost done, just a couple of chapters left. Thanks for all the support, almost 3,500 views! If you liked this chapter or the story, please, please, please leave a review. I love them, really I do.

Alana's story will continue, but in a different fandom. Technically it's not a crossover, since they're two separate stories, but you'll be able to find some parts of this story in it.

The working title of this story is The Telepath and The Trickster and I'll let you know when the first chapter will be up!

**UPDATE: Three chapters up now of The Trickster and the Telepath! You can find it through my profile or by searching for it in the story search bar. Thanks so much for your support!**

Bye for now,

masterofthefall


	22. The Farewell

**TWENTY-TWO**

* * *

_the farewell_

* * *

Alana stood inside the airport terminal, assessing her surroundings cautiously. She knew that once she went past security, she couldn't go back.

Mycroft had been… a little more than shocked when she had requested to go to America and work for their government.

Actually, a lot more than shocked.

Her flight was leaving in an hour. She had plenty of time.

She sighed and fiddled with a strand of her hair. She only had a few suitcases with her, and they were mostly filled with books. Her parents' will had given her the house, which Mycroft had sold for a good deal more than it was worth. That, along with her parents' life insurance, had made her quite a wealthy young woman.

She had no idea what to do. She hadn't even gotten to say goodbye to John and Sherlock.

She knew she had to go, that she had _chosen_ to go. But all the same, her heart ached at the thought of never seeing England again.

Her phone beeped in her pocket; she had a text.. Pulling it out, she read,

_Look behind you._

_SH_

She turned around and saw Sherlock and John walking up towards her. She smiled hugely, and before her head could slap her emotions, she ran up and hugged Sherlock.

He just sort of stood there like a board, and patted her back a little awkwardly. John, behind him, was trying not to crack up.

Alana's head finally came round and sucker punched her emotions, and she let go.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly.

Sherlock sniffed, adjusting his coat.

John finally couldn't take it anymore, and laughed. Alana hugged him too. Where Sherlock was stiff, John was only… cuddly. That was the only word for him and his jumpers.

She said, "I'm so glad you two came. Seriously. I was having second doubts."

"Are you sure you won't stay?" John asked.

"Hey," she said, "this way you can pretend you were never beat up by a sixteen-year old girl."

John blushed a bit. Obviously he wasn't over that yet.

"But… America!" he said. "It's so far…"

"I'll write," Alana offered.

"Good." John smiled.

"Don't." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock!" John scolded.

"Would you shut up and stop interrupting me John? I was going to say, don't write."

John rolled his eyes as if saying, _and how is that better, exactly?_

"I prefer to e-mail."

Sherlock smirked and Alana smiled and they eventually started to snicker and then to laugh at the look on John's face.

John threw up his hands, admitting defeat.

"Your face!" Alana wheezed, holding her sides.

"Alright, alright," John said, though he was smiling too.

After the laughter had died down, there was silence as each of them tried to figure out how to say goodbye.

Alana was the first to attempt. "Well… I should probably get going. My flight's going to be leaving soon."

"Yes." Sherlock said, clearing his throat.

John smiled sadly. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes," Alana said firmly. Being with them had made up her mind. "Yes, I'm going."

"We'll miss you," John offered, since it seemed like Sherlock wasn't about to say anything anytime soon.

"I'll miss you too. And, I just wanted to say thanks. Again. For everything you did. For breaking me out, and helping me… well. You know."

"Thank you." Sherlock said.

John looked sideways at him. This was a definite first.

"For… saving us. And not hurting John. Well, too much."

John sighed. Would Sherlock _ever _just let it go?

Knowing him, probably not.

"You've been the most brilliant case I've had yet."

Alana smiled, touched.

John cleared his throat. "Um, yes, well.. I guess what he said. Thank you."

Alana's phone beeped, reminding her that she had half an hour before her flight left.

"Well, I'd better leave now," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Goodbye," she said, shaking Sherlock's hand and giving John another hug.

The detective and the blogger watched the girl with the changing eyes pass through security and vanish to them… for good.

"I need to go harpoon a dead pig," Sherlock said abruptly,

"Okay…" John said, bewildered. "Why?"

"For my next case, John!" Sherlock said, throwing his hands up in the air. "_She's_ gone, and I need a new one. I _have_ a new one. And I need to harpoon a dead pig."

John furrowed his brow. "You have a harpoon?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he was insane. "Of _course_ I have a harpoon."

John shrugged, an expression of incredulity on his face. "All right," he said.

They hailed a cab and set off for 221B.

* * *

**A/N: Yay! Final chapter! What do you think… should I do an epilogue? Hmm… If I get a review or two telling me I should, I will! Thanks for all your support, everyone. Oh, and the first couple of chapters of my sequel The Trickster and the Telepath are up. Yippee!**

**But seriously, thanks. I couldn't have done it without you.**

**Love, masterofthefall**


	23. Epilogue - The Funeral

**EPILOGUE_  
_**

* * *

_the funeral_

* * *

The black tombstone gleamed. The rows of folding chairs were filled with mourners dressed in black.

John sat to the side. He could not hear the words that people spoke, and he himself would speak none.

His nightmares had come back, and he was more alone than ever. His best friend had killed two people when he jumped.

The service passed, and he found himself sitting there an hour after everyone had left. The folding chairs were being taken away, so he got up. His movements were almost mechanical.

_You machine. Sod this, sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own._

His last words to Sherlock haunted him. He shouldn't have left, shouldn't have left…

"John?"

The soft voice cut through his memories, taking him back to a long, long time ago, when things were simpler and Sherlock was alive.

He turned stiffly, seeing her, several meters away. She looked older, more grown-up than he had remembered.

"Alana?"

She smiled sadly. "Hi."

"I thought you were living in America now." Small talk. He didn't want to talk about Sherlock.

She walked toward the grave, kneeling next to it. "I am. But I heard about… Sherlock, and I thought – well. I thought I should thank him one last time."

"He wasn't a fake."

Alana looked up at him. "I know. Better than some."

She stood up, brushing the dirt off her black jeans. "Being in someone's head does tell you a bit about them."

John shifted. "Are you… doing it again?"

She smiled a bit. "No. Although… I did do a favor once for a friend."

They stood there together in silence. They didn't know each other any more. Two years of absence had changed Alana into a young woman, and had aged John twenty years.

Actually, the last month had.

A bird chirped, and John could think of nothing to say. Eventually, he asked, "How've you been?"

"Well, I suppose. Training is hard, but I'm doing decently, I think. I've made some friends, and I love New York."

"That's good."

"And you? Are you okay, John?"

"No, I am BLOODY WELL NOT OKAY!" he roared. Alana didn't flinch, looking like this was to be expected. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down. In an angry whisper, he said, "My best friend _killed_ himself in front of me, and _lied _to me, and I couldn't save him, and…" He broke off, tears in his eyes.

Alana gently put a hand on his shoulder. "I know, I know. I'm sorry, John."

"Sorry doesn't bring him back," John spat out, not angry with her, but with himself.

"I know, John." A tinge of ice crept into her voice. "My parents were murdered in front of my eyes. My brother was killed. I _know _sorry doesn't bring people back."

She sighed. "Miracles do."

She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then turned and departed from the cemetery. John wanted to apologize, but instead stood there, staring at Sherlock's grave, as the pine needles fell and Alana Cooper walked out of his life for the last time.

* * *

Alana was walking toward her car when her phone rang. She pulled it out, brow darkening.

"What is it now?" she asked quietly, forcefully.

She listened, and said, "He's torn to bits. What do you expect? You – "

The person on the other line interrupted, and sighing, she said, "Look, what more do you want? I dropped everything and came out here. It worked, okay?"

The other person spoke quietly. Her face darkened. "No. I won't. I have a _life_ now, or something resembling it, and I've just seen John. I am _not _in the mood to go gallivanting along with you through Eastern Europe."

She rubbed her head. "I saved your life, Sherlock Holmes. You owe me."

His reply came, she laughed mockingly and said, "What do I want? What do you _think _I want? I want John Watson to be happy again. Come back, Sherlock. There's my request. And don't say you can't, because I know you can."

She paused. "Give him one more miracle."

_THE END_

* * *

**A/N: Wow... it feel really weird to have finished this. Weird and sad. It's been a lovely journey, and I thank all my reviewers, and followers, and all the ones who favorited. You are all amazing.**

**If you're not ready for Alana's story to end just yet, then go check out The Trickster and the Telepath!**

**But seriously, I love you all. Thank you.**

***gives big virtual hugs to everyone***


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